At Grey Pine there was a sense of tension.  Penhallow was a man slow in thinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive.  He had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party and follow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted.  Whether he should take an active share in the politics of the county troubled him, as he had told Rivers.  He must, of course, tell his wife how he had resolved to vote.  To speak here and there at meetings, to throw himself into the contest, was quite another matter.  His wife would feel deeply grieved.  Between the two influential feelings the resolution of forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to hold his tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for the principles unfortunately represented by Fremont, but to have one frank talk with Ann Penhallow.  There was no need to do this as yet, and he smiled again at the thought that Mrs. Ann was, as he pretty well knew, playing the game of politics at Westways.  He might stop her.  He could ask her to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openly make war against her, that he could not do.  It did not matter much as the State in any case would go for Buchanan.  He hesitated, and had better have been plain with her.  She knew that he had been long in doubt, but did not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions she held to as she did to her religious creed.  He found relief in his decision, and too in freedom of talk with Rivers, who looked upon slavery as simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsible for an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism to consider a blessing for all concerned.

John too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder more and more that what Westways discussed should never be mentioned at Grey Pine.  He rode Dixy early in the mornings with Leila at his side, fished or swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on.  On September 30th, Ann was to take Leila to the school in Maryland.  Three days before this terrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of the stable-yard, Leila said, “I have only three days.  I want to go and see the Indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places I feel as if I shall never see again.”

“What nonsense, Leila.  What do you mean?”

“Oh, Aunt Ann says I will be so changed in a year, I won’t know myself.”

“You mean, you won’t see things then as they are seen now.”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find the right words.”

“Perhaps,” he said.  “Things never look just the same tomorrow, but they may look—­well, nicer—­or—­I can’t always find the right word.  Suppose we walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk.”  It was so agreed.

They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and as Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions to the comfort of a sick woman in the village.  They crossed the garden and were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke.  “We just did it.  Billy will have to go.”  They laughed merrily at their escape.